


Life's a Boat

by jamespadfoot



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CS AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3536273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamespadfoot/pseuds/jamespadfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She squints down at the photograph, placing it next a similar one she’d been staring at only moments before. In this one, there’s all five of them, Emma, and her two foster sisters, and Killian and his brother. Liam’s got his arm around Emma and the other on Killian, while Elsa and Anna are hugging each other tightly by the waist; all grinning brightly at the camera during some indie concert. They look so young; awkward (Emma), all long limbs (Killian, before puberty hit), crooked teeth (Elsa, before braces), and Anna and Liam with their thick dorky glasses.</p>
<p>___</p>
<p>In which Emma explores her future, by remembering who has been there in the past, as she sits under the sun with her friends. And maybe that guy she likes more than a friend. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life's a Boat

It had been a cool September morning, she remembers, leaves only just starting to brown when she’d nervously made her way into the doors of middle high, trying desperately to believe that Ingrid was right, that she’d be okay here.

 

For once, she was dressed in _actually fitting_ clothes, neither too loose nor tight, and not too bad from a fashion sense. It had been hard, to stave the optimism bubbling about, because as hard as she’d stared herself in the mirror that morning to ensure she looked perfect, she had also stared hard at her reflection, a silent conversation with herself not to hope for _too much_.

 

And then she’d seen him.

 

With his weird accent the boys made fun of, to the way his clothes hadn’t sat right on his frame (she’d known in an instant), to the bizarre juxtaposition of his fierce blue eyes and dejected shoulders – she should have stayed away, or at least pitied him. Instead, she’d met his eyes across the hall, and instantly knew that this was a crush she wouldn’t be getting over anytime soon.

 

Like any other teenager faced with a crush, she had done nothing about it, too afraid of his rejection, too afraid to be teased.

 

Well… she _had_ written him an unsigned letter on Valentines, quoting the lyrics from Mandy Moore’s ‘Crush’ (a mortifying secret only Elsa is aware of) only to have him panic, crush the paper (and her heart) and chuck it in the trash before anyone saw.

 

But he hadn’t missed the way her eyes frequently sought his, the way she smiled ever so slightly in his direction when they crossed paths, the way she had placed herself down next to him in physics – turns out the teacher decided the lab partners (she still remembers her partner’s name, Walsh something, who had tried to kiss her at Ingrid’s dining table while working and had instead met the lips of Olaf, her foster sister’s cat).

 

Despite that, they had become friends. Fast friends, who clicked so very thoroughly that he became her _person_ – the one person in the world who truly knew her, every secret, every scar, every fear. Well, except that letter, she muses, grinning embarrassedly to her self at the memory.

 

He coughs, towering above her and bringing her back to the present, the reason she’d gone down memory lane in the first place held delicately in his fingers, fluttering in the wind.

 

“You know I hate these pictures, right?”

 

She looks up at him, shielding her eyes from the sun as she takes in his sun-kissed skin and wind-mussed hair.

 

“What, you were so cute back then,” she says, grinning as she stretches for the photo.

 

“You’re the _worst,”_ he complains, throwing himself onto the deck chair.

 

“And you’re going to get sun burnt, so really, who’s got it worse?”

 

She squints down at the photograph, placing it next a similar one she’d been staring at only moments before. In this one, there’s all five of them, Emma, and her two foster sisters, and Killian and his brother. Liam’s got his arm around Emma and the other on Killian, while Elsa and Anna are hugging each other tightly by the waist; all grinning brightly at the camera during some indie concert. They look so young; awkward (Emma), all long limbs (Killian, before puberty hit), crooked teeth (Elsa, before braces), and Anna and Liam with their thick dorky glasses.

 

“Do you remember what concert this was?”

 

“Meh,” he replies, “some hippy Indie band. They weren’t very good.”

 

“You’re such a snob.”

 

“No, I have _taste.”_

“Will you two _ever_ stop bickering?” Liam interrupts them.

 

“No,” they reply simultaneously, catching each other’s eyes in smug grins. After all these years, they still have it.

 

As if reading their thoughts, Liam rolls his eyes.

 

“I thought since we all haven’t been in the same state for the past 2 years you two would mellow out…but nope. Nope, it’s like nothing’s changed.”

 

“Some things clearly have,” Killian shoots back, eyes darting to the emerging figure from below deck.

 

Emma doesn’t turn, knowing exactly who is about to join them on deck, with her diamond ring in tow.

 

“I know right,” she says loftily, “this coming from Miss-Humans-Don’t-Excite-Me to Ugh-Maybe-Its-Just-Boys to, guys, I’m-Marrying-Liam-Jones.”

 

“I was brow beaten into saying yes, you know this Emma,” Elsa says, never missing a step in conversation as she saunters in gracefully.

 

Emma’s always admired that about her – Elsa is the definition of a person marching to her own beat, cool, aloft and so very individual. It took them years to finally settle into being a family, the exuberant little Anna and the frosty teenage Elsa, and Ingrid, with the patience of a saint as she built a family from the broken hearts of three little orphan girls.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure mom will be glad to hear _that,”_ another voice joins in, her bright polka dot bikini shadowed only by her blinding smile. She’s tugging Kristoff, her Norwegian _husband,_ now two years married. They had sent her off for a semester in Europe and she had eloped with a man she’d known barely for a week.

 

It’s a wonder Anna is still alive, Ingrid often says, because she’s far too trusting and way too impulsive. Still, no one can deny the fact that the two are madly in love, so it’s not like anyone can complain. (Ingrid still does, says she was robbed of a wedding, so help them god if Elsa and Emma elope, she’ll kill them. Or so Emma has heard her threaten about a hundred times.)

 

“Rich, coming from you,” Elsa shoots back, rolling her eyes and snatching Emma’s sunglasses of her face.

 

“Hey!”

 

The Jones brothers sigh simultaneously, but it’s Kristoff, who is still adjusting to this tightly-knit, loud group, that speaks.

 

“Maybe we should all have something to eat before we get into the next round of arguments?”

 

“Best suggestion all day, mate,” Killian says, standing up with gusto.

 

“So how exactly did you come by this boat?” she can hear Kristoff asking as the three men wonder off to the kitchenette.

 

Beside her, Elsa takes Killian’s vacant seat, and Anna perches in between their handles.

 

“It’s been a while since it’s been just us three girls,” Anna says wistfully, running her fingers through Emma’s long blonde hair. For her part, Emma absolutely loves it when Anna (or anyone she’s close with really,) runs her fingers through the knotty mess that is her wind blown hair. It’s something Ingrid had done when it was just the two of them, and it soothes her, drains the tension from her shoulders like an open pipe.

 

“Yeah, let’s go away for my bachelorette party, okay?”

 

“Isn’t that why we’re in Rhode Island right now?”

 

“This is different, Emma,” Elsa whines, leaning forward and giving Anna the perfect opportunity to pluck her sunglasses off.

 

“Oh for the love of- ”Emma complains, as Anna grins from under the too-large frames, “buy your own damn sunglasses.”

 

“Oi, are you ladies gonna come and lend us a hand or not? Liam is butchering the meat!” Killian yells from below, interrupting their sibling time.

 

“I’ll butcher _you_ Killian Jones, you watch that mouth!”

 

“God, I’m marrying a child,” Elsa grumbles, snuggling deeper into the chair, “let them deal with it.”

 

“Ha, ha, um no, I think I better go save Kristoff before he ends up butchering them, well not that he would actually you know, but,” Anna shrugs, a little helplessly, as she scampers off with Emma’s sunglasses in tow.

 

“She’s kidding, right? We didn’t actually let our sister marry a serial killer?”

 

“When has Anna ever needed permission to do something?”

 

Emma snorts, because no truer words have been said. “Yeah well, I checked him out anyway. Full background check.”

 

Elsa yawns, pulling her large straw hat (with a fancy bow) further down her face, “I know, Ems.”

 

She peers at Emma from beneath her hat, weighing something on her lips before she closes her eyes, letting the words fall away.

 

Emma thinks she knows what its about – the imprint of a hand on her neck five months ago, the bloody knuckles that came with it, and the abrupt termination of her longest lasting relationship.

 

Elsa is giving her space (for now), but Emma still feels the scrutiny of her gaze under her skin, so she mutters a quick excuse about going to help and joins the rest below deck.

 

It’s cramped as it can be, with 3 adult males and two women, so Kristoff and Anna excuse themselves hastily, and Liam shoves the knife in Killian’s direction, telling him since he’s Gordon Ramsey or whatever, he can slice the meat, before heading in the direction of his snoozing fiancé.

 

“Stuck with the work as usual, eh Swan?” he says, using the name she’d taken before Ingrid’s. It’s their little secret – he calls her that only when they’re alone, an acknowledgement that he’d seen _her_ , Emma, all those years ago.

 

She loves Ingrid with all her heart, but sometimes she _still_ wonders why the Swans gave her up, more than she wonders about her biological parents. Their betrayal, somehow cuts the deepest, yet when Killian calls her that, he breathes new life into it, a term of endearment rather than memory of hurt, a secret they’d traded when they were playing make believe – The Swan Princess and Captain Hook.

 

_Forget-me-not, melancholy blue eyes,_ she’d told him once, _you look sad like him._

_High-level reader,_ he’d responded, complimenting the unabridged version of Peter Pan she’d been reading when he had appeared in her life.

 

“It’s not like it’s hard to make sandwiches, they’re all just lazy.”

 

“Truer words, Swan, truer words.”

 

She’s busy slathering the cream cheese on Elsa’s slice when he speaks again.

 

“Neal was an asshole.”

 

The words are out of the blue, yet she neither disagrees nor is surprised by the sudden jump of conversation.

 

“He was.”

 

“M&M says you punched him hard,” he says, clearly knowing better than to ask her something like ‘how are you holding up’.

 

“I did.”

 

“And the court case?”

 

Her head snaps up at that, eyeing him in surprise – she’s not told anyone yet.

 

“You’re speaking a to a legal consultant here Swan, of course I know there’s a court case,” he says in amused exasperation, answering her unasked question.

 

She huffs out an irritated breath, once again being bested by just how well he can read her.

 

“In 8 months,” she grumbles, “he’s out on bail.”

 

He jerks at that, clearly a piece of information he didn’t know.

 

“The fucker is roaming free?”

 

“Assault and possible attempted murder with illegal data mining and violation of data protection is apparently _not that high_ on the list of misdemeanors,” she drawls out, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. She’s done wasting emotion on Neal – he’d used her, abused her in the end, but she’d pushed back and she’s taking no more shit.

 

“He was going to propose.”

 

She drops the bread she’s holding, whirling around in shock.

 

“WHAT?!”

 

He’s not looking at her, piercing olives and cubes of feta cheese onto a toothpick with his usual attention to detail.

 

“He came to me, about one month before shit went down, asking me to pick a ring.”

 

“Why you? He’s never liked you,” she says, focusing on this fact rather than the revelation he’s just dropped on her, or the fact that she hasn’t seen him in about 7 months, which sounds like just after this excursion.

 

“At the time, he told me it was because and I quote, ‘If you’re not leaving us alone, might as well become friends’.”

 

“God, what an asshole.”

 

“I know right?” he grins, eyes flitting to her face briefly before returning his attention to his task.

 

“Anyway, we went ring shopping, cheap bastard by the way, had a few beers, I questioned his intentions, he told me to fuck off, then apologized, then I beat him at darts, and well, that was it.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“When?”

 

“When you questioned his intentions? Very medieval, by the way.”

 

Killian says nothing, still not looking at her, and she knows he’s measuring his words very carefully.

 

“He said the two of you were happy – and he wanted to keep it that way,” he says finally, arranging the toothpicks in an obsessive-compulsive neatness.

 

“That’s it?”

 

“When has Neal ever spoken more than five words to me?”

 

She rolls her eyes at his exaggeration, but she also knows there’s not much of a story there – Neal’s never been one for words anyway. Neither has she, come to think of it, preferring always to do rather than say.

 

“Does uh… anyone else know?”

 

“No,” he says firmly, finally pushing the plate away.

 

He moves closer to her, and Emma feels the breath back up into her lungs, the sensation of _something_ he’s not saying hanging between them. He takes the abandoned bread from her care, finishing up her task.

 

“What a waste of time, huh? I know how you hate shopping.”

 

She’s teasing, and he knows it, as he rolls his eyes at her but she can see the heaviness behind his gaze, the smirk not quite right on his face.

 

“Please, Swan, I love shopping. Just you know, for books, and the right blend of rum, or fishing apparel, or stationery.”

 

“Stationery shopping is the best.”

 

“You know I still haven’t opened that Chinese calligraphy set?”

 

“Neither have I,” she says with a laugh, remembering that purchase. She’d been there with him, more than a year ago, as they indulged in their favorite pastime of Sunday brunch and bookshop hunting.

 

There had been a young man and his sister at a desk, creating beautiful art with the stroke of a brush on delicate red rice paper. They’d been enraptured, watching them and asking questions, and had gotten their own art after purchasing the set, with intent on learning it off the internet.

 

Her paper is folded in-between her Harry Potter book, the characters 天鹅 in broad and narrow strokes, courtesy of one Killian Jones, who’d blurted out “Swan!” when the artist had asked what to write. (His reads ‘Captain’.)

 

She moves closer to him, taking Liam’s sandwich out of his hands (the only one with mustard and pickle), grabbing a knife to cut the edges.

 

“I would have said no,” she says softly, carefully removing the crusts.

 

“I thought you were happy with him,” he says, not even pretending ignorance.

 

“I wasn’t unhappy,” is what she says after a long beat, cutting the sandwich in triangles and plating them.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, the hurt shining through even as he hands her Elsa’s sandwich to de-crust. Their fingers brush as he does, and she wonders if there’s ever been a time she’s been so aware of his presence next to her.

 

“You’d have pulverized him,” she says, “and I already did that. And after, I just kinda wanted to forget about it.”

 

“I’d have set him on bloody fire,” he growls, “setting his hands on you like that. Fucking asshole.”

 

“I assaulted him first,” she reminds him.

 

“He deserved it,” he says, slapping down the bread onto Anna’s sandwich with more force than necessary.

 

“Yeah, well when were you going to tell me what happened with Milah?”

 

“What, you mean that I was her little escape from being married to Robert Gold? Not a big deal. It’s a done thing, at least I don’t have to see her in court or anything.”

 

Emma feels her temper flare, raising the knife as she waves her hand to make a point.

 

“That is _not_ the point. You didn’t tell me.”

 

“You had your own problems at the time, Emma, what was mine compared to what Neal did?”

 

“I want to know, Killian. I care.”

 

“And I you. You didn’t want to talk, remember? You’ve shut me out since Neal, and I thought it was because I introduced you and you were mad--  ”

 

The more he speaks, the more she wants to stab him with the knife she’s holding. What a fucking moron.

 

“God, you think THAT is why I didn’t want to see you?” she cuts in, slamming the knife down on the board.

 

His eyes dart to the sharp blade, and then to her, full attention on her.

 

“What then? Because I haven’t done -- ”

 

“That’s exactly it,” she whisper-yells, not wanting Liam or Elsa to come running in.

 

“Wha-- ”

 

“ _You_ would have never done what he did, Killian.”

 

It takes her a moment, in the stillness of her words and his slack-jawed response, for her to realize just how much of her hand she’s revealed. Another man might not have realized the gravity behind the words, but Killian’s never been another man.

 

That’s the damn problem, she thinks bitterly, as she watches his face carefully blank itself. It’s been 13 years, and she’s not a love-struck teenager anymore, but there’s something about him that she’s never been able to shake off, the softness in her heart for him, the way she tries not to think of him with other women, or how she gets sporadic pangs of longing even as she convinces herself that they are much, much, much better as friends. Half the things he does would drive her crazy in a relationship. She’s 100% sure of it.

 

“No, I wouldn’t have, if you were mine,” he says, dragging her attention firmly back to him. He’s turned, pushing all the finished food away from them as he grips her forearms gently.

 

“Listen to me Swan, you deserve to be _worshipped._ At the very least, someone who appreciates you in all your perfect imperfections, who understands your temper and soothes your fears, and just respects your freedom and space.”

 

“Where am I going to find someone like _that?”_ she huffs incredulously, but he’s so close, thumbs running circles on her arms, and her voice comes out in a hoarse breath instead.

 

“Maybe it’s not a matter of finding…” he hedges, and god, is he actually insinuating what she thinks he is, or is her brain being clouded by what it wants?

 

“Killian, what are you saying?”

 

“Do you really want me to say it, Emma?”

 

He’s looking at her in earnest now, blue eyes scanning her face like he’s a damn price tag reader, trying to decipher her thoughts. And she gets it – if she makes him say it, if he says it, there’s no going back for him. It’ll be out there in the open, and if she doesn’t want it, they’ll flounder. It’s the same reason she’s never said anything either – it’s one thing to dance around it, but to say, to tell him she’s been in love with him before she even understood the emotion…

 

Maybe they don’t have to say it.

 

She doesn’t think about it, just closes her eyes and shuts off her thoughts as her lips unerringly finds his. Her heart is either beating so fast its merged into a single sound, or it’s stopped beating altogether, because there’s a moment where nothing happens, everything absolutely dead silent, before the shock breaks and he’s _inhaling_ her in, their kiss turning messy and passionate and rough in .6 seconds flat.

 

He sucks in a ragged breath, which she immediately steals as she refuses to disengage, unable to believe he’s actually kissing her back. His hands circle tighter around her, moving from her arms to her waist, pulling her flush against him.

 

She leans her weight into him, making him stumble against the cupboards, and it’s only when he groans that she pulls back minutely, breathing hard.

 

“You okay?” she asks.

“You’re kidding right?”

 

He kisses her jaw, so gently it sucks the heat of the moment away from her, the reality of where they are and what they’re doing slamming into her.

 

“Oh Emma, you’ve no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that. Please don’t say this is… a mistake. Or a lapse in judgment. Or a one time thing. _Please.”_

 

“I’ve lo--,” she falters, because he knows she loves him, but this is different, this is _in love,_ “you’re not a mistake, Killian.”

 

“You’re what?” he pushes, clearly not letting her off the hook.

 

God, what is she doing? So soon after being a heartbroken mess she’s jumping in feet first with her best friend.

 

“Emma, you what?”

 

Silence. She doesn’t know what to say.

 

“Emma.”

 

More silence, then a deep, steadying breath.

 

“I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you in that hallway, I think, but I knew _for sure_ during English. We were told to present about a ‘teen idol’ and you chose Marie Antoinette.”

 

She’s not looking at his face directly, the intensity of his gaze too much, though she can see the white of his teeth as his face breaks out into a grin, a little laugh escaping.

 

“I can’t believe that worked,” he says.

 

That makes her look. “What?”

 

“Not gonna lie, Swan, I googled “feminist in history” with the impression it would get your attention.”

 

“You’re joking.”

 

“Nop,” he says, popping the ‘p’, eyes crinkled and shining in mirth.

 

“I can’t believe that actually worked,” he repeats, shaking his head in wonder.

 

“I can’t believe I fell for that,” she says, shaking her head and stepping back so she can see him properly.

 

“I’m glad you did. Jesus, it’s been 13 years. We could be married by now,” he says.

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up buddy.”

 

“No offense, darling, but we’ve always made a hell of a team. The knot's an inevitability, at this point.”

 

At her raised eyebrow, he blows out a breath, eyes catching hers in a startling intensity that wasn’t there a few seconds ago.

 

“It’s always been you, Emma Snow,” he says quietly, using her legal name, the declaration so simple yet powerful; she is unable to look away.

 

He means it. Every word. It’s all there in his face, the slight rouge of his cheeks and ears, the crinkle in his brow and by his eyes, the blues of his iris sharp on her own.

 

“God, me too,” she says, moving forward before her emotions can catch up with her, because she wants to cry, and she really doesn’t want to cry when she could be distracting herself with his lips.

 

Their lips meet once more, and she knows this isn’t going to be perfect – she knows him too well, all the good and bad, but she thinks she’ll put up with anything and work through it because this is it. This.Is.It.

 

“What the hell is going on, I’m hungry!” Liam yells as he barrages into the kitchenette, only to stop short as he gapes at them. He looks like someone’s taken a rather heavy bat and beaten him on the head several times, which only makes Emma giggle, hiding her face into Killian’s shirt.

 

“Uh.”

 

“Hello, brother.”

 

“What.”

 

“Go on and collect the food, we’ll be up shortly,” Killian instructs, sounding rather calm despite his heavy breathing.

 

Liam blinks, the dumbstruck expression clearing as he takes in the plates of food.

 

“Should I be concerned about sanitation?”

 

“There was barely any time to taint the food,” Killian says, as Emma stifles her laughter, hitting his chest playfully.

 

“Maybe next time,” she chimes in.

 

Liam grins then, grabbing the plates as he calls out to the rest, “Guess who won the bet suckers, they’re busy making out in the kitchen!”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the following consecutive captcha's during my E!Online voting spree, in this exact order: crush, letter, memory, boat, hand, neck, knot. I've used every word in this exact order, and this got really long! Please make sure to vote in the poll, because rumor has it, that the winning ship will get a dedicated interview with the actors. Search e!online's poll in Tumblr or google.


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